Revenge of the Green Banana

by Jim Murphy

  “I see.”

  That “I see” clearly meant she didn’t see at all why I had been sent, if the accident had been as innocent as I’d described it. A few seconds of awkward silence followed. I came within a millisecond of confessing everything, but Sister Mary Brian spoke first.

  She turned to face her class. “Children,” she said, suddenly cheerful, “I believe that James Murphy here is the answer to our prayers.” Me, the answer to someone’s prayers? This definitely had to be a mistake. A major one. “James, go stand at the door, please. And children, I want you to line up behind him, and let’s keep the chatter to a minimum, shall we?”

  Then she added in an unexpectedly happy voice, “I believe we have found our Green Banana!”

  10

  Chugga-Chugga-Chug

  I DID AS DIRECTED and stationed myself at the door. Now what? I wondered. And what was this about me being a green banana? And where were we going, anyway? The kids—​all fifty-something of them—​piled into a line behind me, girls in front, boys behind, according to height. There was some random whispering going on, and every so often I heard the words “green banana.”

  “Boys and girls,” Sister Mary Brian said over the murmuring, “James will be our locomotive during our walk, and I will be the caboose. You are all passenger cars. James, we’re going to the auditorium by way of the back stairway. You should stop at the boys’ room to wash your hands.”

  “Yes, Sister.” So I had been a green banana, but now I was a locomotive. This had to be some sort of torture method they thought up in the convent at night. “I want to hear my chugga-chuggas,” she announced, which started my brain thinking, Chugga-chuggas? What the . . . But before I could complete that thought, she commanded, “Forward, James.”

  I started walking, assuming that the short passenger-car folk behind would follow. If they didn’t, I intended to keep on walking. All the way home if possible. Almost immediately I heard a chorus of tiny voices behind me chanting, “Chugga-chugga-chug, chugga-chugga-chug.” Over and over again. This was bad, of course, but then Sister Mary Brian called out, “And where are my train whistles?”

  The phrase Please shoot me now entered my brain, but was pushed aside by a series of howling train whistles that nearly drowned out the chugga-chugga-chugs. “Where are my bass whistles?” Sister Mary Brian asked. And guess what? There followed several very low, grumbling “hoot-hoot-hooooots.”

  I think the floor must have tilted just then. My legs felt a little shaky, and my head just couldn’t figure out what was happening. Sister Mary Brian was the Enforcer. She was supposed to have a spanking machine and be ninja quick with the ear grab ’n twist. But now she had a class marching through school making all sorts of silly sounds. Where had this Sister Mary Brian been during all the years I was avoiding the other, more lethal one?

  The line halted for a moment as I ducked into the boys’ room and ran cold water over my hands. This time alone helped me to steady myself. When I resumed my locomotive duties, I picked up the pace in self-defense. Best to get where we were going as quickly as possible, and maybe the chugga-chugga-chugs and hoot-hoots would stop.

  We passed Saint Stephen’s statue, but I didn’t bother crossing myself. I didn’t need any more of that kind of luck. Though I admit, getting slammed in the head with the rock he had in his hand was looking like a good way to escape all my problems. Which made me realize that most saints are martyrs, and not many martyrs die peacefully in bed.

  I was thinking over this martyr thing, wondering why so many seemingly sane people wanted to be a part of that club, as we went up past Sister Rose Mary’s office toward the hall with all the windows. This could all be over in a few painful minutes, I assured myself. At this point my heart sank.

  My aunt Briana (on the Irish side of our family) once said that her heart sank when she learned that her no-account first husband, Franky, had emptied their bank account and run off with the bank teller. I didn’t think this was possible physically, the heart sinking part. If your heart really did sink, it would cause a real mess inside your body. But I understood exactly what she meant when I passed the principal’s office, looked up, and saw Sister Angelica Rose headed in our direction. Trailed by our entire class.

  My heart sank all the way to the shiny sky-blue tiled floor. I made eye contact with Sister Angelica for a second, then immediately lowered my gaze to the tiles. Keep moving, I told myself. You can’t escape this latest disgrace, not with everyone behind you chugga-chugga-chugging and hoot-hooting so loudly. But getting past my class would at least—​

  “James,” Sister Mary Brian called out. “Please stop the train so I can talk with Sister Angelica for a moment.”

  I did as directed, my head still down, my eyes taking in the gold speckles in the blue tiles. There must have been a million speckles per square tile, all twinkly and bright. Carefree, even innocent. I wished I could float through the blue vastness to the other side of the universe.

  “And children,” Sister Mary Brian added, “let’s keep the steam up in our boiler, shall we?”

  Now instead of chugga-chugga-chugging and hoot-hooting, they began to hiss enthusiastically.

  “Hey, Murph. Murph,” Vero called in a very low whisper. He wasn’t far from me. Maybe fifteen feet or so ahead. “What’s going on?” he wanted to know. I wasn’t about to say out loud that I was a green banana turned locomotive, so I just shrugged. “Don’t worry,” Vero said reassuringly. “We’ll figure out a plan, and we’ll get her.”

  Several of the guys grumbled, “Yeah, we’ll get her.” Mayor gave me the thumbs-up, accompanied by nods from Iggy, Tom-Tom, Philip, and Squints. Squints, ever subtle, emphasized his support by making a slashing gesture across his neck and nodding toward Sister Angelica.

  By this time I was wondering how the other kids in my class were reacting to my banishment to the second grade. Especially what Kathy Gathers was thinking. But when I glanced around, I saw that Roger Sutternhopf was next to me, his arms crossed across his chest, staring at me.

  “James,” Sister Mary Brian called out. “Forward to the station!”

  Roger gave me what I think might be called an evil sneer. He balled his fists, began moving both arms back and forth slowly, and said just loud enough for me to hear, “Chugga-chugga-chug, chugga-chugga-chug.” Other kids near him began to echo his challenge: “Chugga-chugga-chug.”

  I moved forward, trailed by the passenger cars’ innocent chugga-chugga-chugging and hoot-hooting. As I passed the guys, Philip raised his hand as if to say something, then glanced toward Sister Angelica and thought better of it. It would have been nice to have a friendly word from Philip, even if I had no idea what he was saying. Instead he had a kind of we might never see you again look on his face.

  11

  Going Bananas

  I TURNED LEFT at the intersection and went up the long hallway, the entire place growing darker as we got farther and farther from the windows. Darker, like the inside of my head.

  Sister Angelica was bad enough, but what Roger had done was just . . . just . . . too much. I felt pressure slowly building up inside me, whispering that I had to do something, no matter what, before my head exploded. I didn’t remember ever picking on Roger or making fun of him in all our years at St. Stephen’s. And I hardly ever said anything bad about him behind his back. There was the pencil box to the head, of course, but even Roger had to know that was an accident. Besides, everyone knew he was smart. I never, ever said he wasn’t. So what did the smartest kid in class get out of making fun of the dumbest kid?

  I wondered if we could put Roger on the murderlate list along with Sister Angelica, and I was getting a bit of satisfaction from this thought when another intruded. We would be passing Sister Ursula’s classroom, and Sister Mary Brian might stop the train again to ask her what really happened.

  I ducked my head and held my breath as we passed the door to the fourth-grade room. But there was no command to stop, so I pressed on as quickly as
I could without actually breaking into a sprint. Turned the corner and was through the door to the staircase and down in the auditorium a moment later.

  All the lights were on, so bright I had to shade my eyes so they could adjust. I started down the wooden stairs that led to the main floor of the auditorium, but Sister Mary Brian called out from behind, “Go straight across the stage, James, and stop at the other side.”

  I was halfway across the stage when I noticed Bernie, the janitor. He was perched high on a tall, wobbly wooden ladder, way backstage, where they stored lights, stage props for class shows, boxes, and pieces of dusty old furniture. When Sister Mary Brian appeared, Bernie called out, “If you want, I can come back later to do this, Sister.” He took a step down the ladder, which leaned dangerously left and right, left and right.

  “No, no, no, Bernie. You finish what you’re doing. You aren’t in our way at all.” She walked to the center of the stage, then added, “And you know that Sister Angelica needs the bowling alleys as soon as possible. We don’t want to disappoint her, now, do we?”

  Alleys? Sister Angelica needed the alleys? Then I remembered. When the school was built, way back in like 1935, they put two bowling alleys in the backstage area. They also lined the walls of the auditorium with basketball hoops. After school, any nun who wanted could come from the convent, which was about twenty feet from the side door of the auditorium, and bowl her heart out. I couldn’t picture the nuns shooting baskets, so I assumed the hoops were for kids. The bowling alleys hadn’t been used in years, and even though there were lots of boxes and chairs on them, I could see dirt and dust coating the wood, plus several loose planks sticking up.

  “No, Sister,” Bernie called down. “But I think I might have bad news for her. I have to sand and recoat the wood to make it smooth, and it’ll take at least a week for it to dry proper.”

  “Well, in that case—” Sister Mary Brian began, but then she changed gears. “Well, that’s all the more reason you should continue with your work there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Sister.” He went back up the swaying ladder and began winding up the fifteen or twenty long cords used to hold up painted scene panels.

  I didn’t have much time to think about the bowling alleys or why Angelica wanted them. Sister Mary Brian ordered all her Yellow Bananas to get into position. In a matter of seconds they formed a giant V, which she called the Victory-V. The group named the Banana Boat kids were told to stand stage right. I was puzzling over this reference to Banana Boat kids when she had another group move to stage left. They also seemed to be fruit related. I assumed that this rehearsal was for the pre-Thanksgiving show, where the kindergarten through fifth-grade classes sang and danced for their parents. Maybe Sister Mary Brian liked fruit cocktail.

  I was all set. The entire class was positioned for the rehearsal and waiting patiently, so my job was officially done. “Ah, Sister,” I ventured. I raised my hand tentatively. “Maybe I should go back to my class now?”

  I had chosen my words and tone of voice very, very carefully. I didn’t want her to think I was demanding to be released or even implying that it was time she let me go. Better to make a gentle suggestion and let her find the right answer on her own. Only she didn’t.

  “Go? Now?” She didn’t seem upset or annoyed. Only a little confused. “Sister Angelica said I could have you for the rest of the afternoon. We have a lot of territory to cover here today.”

  I might have groaned, but I probably did it very quietly. You never want to let a nun know you’re annoyed or impatient. There is simply no way to win that contest.

  “And James, why don’t you take your position at the head of the Yellow Bananas.” Sister Mary Brian pointed to the spot at the very front of the Victory-V. “Where the Green Banana stands.”

  My position? The situation was starting to look very complicated. Not to mention inescapable. And it was Sister Angelica who had sentenced me to this torture.

  I stood where directed, and then Sister Mary Brian announced, “I haven’t written the lyrics yet, but we can all hum the tune and dance.” She said this while descending to the floor of the auditorium, where a beat-up black upright piano sat. After settling on the bench, she raised both hands in the air, ready to pounce on the piano keys. “On three. One . . . and two . . .”

  “Ah, Sister,” I said loudly to get her attention. Once again I raised my hand.

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t dance.” It was very quiet all of a sudden, except for a few giggles from the Yellow Bananas behind me.

  “Can’t dance?”

  “No. I can hum, if that helps.”

  “You’ll be doing the box step. Everybody can do the box step. You do know the box step, don’t you?”

  I said no, and a frustrated Sister Mary Brian jumped to her feet and charged back up the stairs to the stage.

  It had happened at last. Sister Mary Brian had tossed aside her good-nun act and turned back into the Enforcer, ready to nail me for having no dancing ability. I almost welcomed the coming assault, as it would reaffirm my view of the world of St. Stephen’s.

  But she didn’t hit me or even grab and twist my ear. Instead, she swooped in next to me, and I was immediately surrounded by the heavy smell of baby powder. “The box step is easy,” she told me. “Here, watch my feet.” She hiked up the hem of her long robe and dangled her left foot, with its shiny sensible black shoe and six or seven inches of her ankle, out front for me to watch. Oh my, I thought.

  She kept talking and even took a step forward, but I wasn’t paying any attention. None. Seeing a nun’s shoe is one thing, but seeing her ankle is another story altogether. And probably a sin. The smell of baby powder was making it hard for me to breathe.

  I’d seen enough shows on TV to know that stages usually had trapdoors where actors could appear and disappear in seconds. I hoped a door would open beneath me and I could fall into the empty black space below.

  “James, are you paying attention?”

  I told her no (better to be honest) and that I was thinking about something (though I failed to mention that I was thinking about being dropped into the black abyss of the fiery underworld for seeing her ankle). I shook my head to clear it of these thoughts.

  “Now, watch closely. It’s really very simple.” She took a step forward with her left foot and planted it on the stage floor. Next, she brought her right foot forward, touched the side of her left foot with it, then slid her right foot a step to the right, planted it, and slid her left foot over next to it. “That’s half the box,” she pointed out. “Now we do it backwards.” She took a step back with her right foot, planted it, brought the left foot back, touched the side of the right foot, then stepped to the left with her left foot, ending by bringing over the right foot so it was right next to the left. “Simple, right?”

  Well, no, not really. But she didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, she repeated the box-step demonstration and made me follow along step by step next to her. Each time we did it, she went a little faster and another gust of baby powder assaulted me. Then she began humming what I guessed was the tune to the Yellow Bananas’ song.

  I needed to get away from her. For years, she had been the Enforcer, an evil, dangerous presence, ever ready to strike. But she had now suddenly turned bizarrely nice. Or just weird. Didn’t matter; neither made sense. I mean, she was dancing and humming and altogether not what I thought she would be. Which only made me suspicious. She had to revert for real at some point, the way seemingly normal people turn into werewolves when the moon is full.

  Then I had a revelation. If I learned the box step well enough, she’d be able to ignore me and focus on her chorus of fruits. So I really tried to concentrate and do the steps as directed. A few minutes later my strategy was working, and she hurried back to the piano.

  Once again she called out, “One . . . and two . . . and three!” At which point she hit those piano keys so hard that my ears started to buzz. She was beating on the keys as if she
were wearing boxing gloves, but I have to admit, she played with real gusto. “Gusto” was a word my dad used when describing musicians who could play a tune with extreme enthusiasm.

  We did our dance nine or ten times. Then the Banana Boat kids took center stage while we stood on the sidelines. Because the stage was oven warm and I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, I was sweating bullets just standing there. After the Banana Boat kids came the third group, which also turned out to be about bananas. They did a song where the word “banana” was rhymed with all sorts of made-up words, like “fo-fana,” “bo-bana,” and “hold-hammer” (though the last was pronounced hold-hamma).

  Here is where my brain stepped in again and took over. While the other groups did their songs, my mind drifted to questions like, What is my class doing right now? Why did Sister Angelica have to do this to me? Is Kathy Gathers thinking about me? And What made Sister Mary Brian decide that bananas were a food group worth singing and dancing about? Then I glanced up at Bernie, who was still way up near the rafters, tucking in those long cords so they didn’t dangle down onto the decrepit bowling alleys.

  Maybe, I thought as I watched, Sister Angelica wanted to bowl after school for exercise, which was fine. She might take out her eternal annoyance on the pins instead of me and Philip. I saw a rope slip from Bernie’s hand and begin swinging back and forth, back and forth. It was at this exact moment that I figured out how we could murderlate Sister Angelica Rose.

  12

  Absolutely Genius

  I WASN’T RELEASED from my banana box-step bondage until the dismissal bell rang. I hurried to the exit door, hoping I could catch up to Mayor or Iggy or somebody and tell them what I’d come up with. But naturally, Sister Mary Brian had a parting comment before I could disappear up the stairs.